Metamorphosis
by Ruta Eureka
Summary: For those who have eyes with which to look at it, the change is in the air, light and impalpable. John Watson begins to realize it.


The difference was subtle, but tangible and once he saw it, for John Watson was impossible to go back.  
("Once turned on, the brain cannot be turned off" John had said a winter of many years before to Sherlock.  
At first Sherlock seemed indifferent, then he frowned. He was in one of his moods less angry and grumpy, he had just solved a case.  
John had shaken his head, preventing him from expressing aloud the scathing opinion on the horizon. "A stock phrase, leave it be."  
He recalled that Sherlock had mumbled during the whole way, returning from the scene of the crime to Baker Street. "Sparked a process is a duty to finish it" he said looking pleased with himself as they came down from the cab. "A linguistic expression more appropriate. I hope that you will remember in future circumstances, John.")  
John remembered it now. He watched with clinical gaze the picture in front of him: Bart's morgue, Molly Hooper and a cup of coffee. A recurring scene except that. Except that was not Molly to offer it, but Sherlock. _Sherlock_. Sherlock that never did anything without expecting something in return.  
_Do_ _ut des, John. Keep that in mind._  
John hadn't forgotten the last, only time that he had offered him one. The harmful side effects of an act of kindness contrived.  
He had to warn Molly? It seemed due. The voice of conscience - Mary - held him back: don't be paranoid.  
John silenced the instinct and waited. He waited impatiently, pretending to examine the corpse of John Doe lying on the operating table and following the progress of the conversation with the corner of his eye.  
Molly accepted the coffee with a smile, thanking without stammering nervous. Mistress of the situation. As if that was normal administration - John winced.  
It sounded incredible, almost impossible, but he must have been right. It was not the first time that happened. He considered the options. As mere compensation for having ripped her backward medical records? Or to have extended overtime her shift?  
Only God could know. _And_ _Sherlock._  
John, lost in thought and focused on his speculations, didn't notice the satisfied smile of Sherlock nor the look of reproach on Molly.

* * *

"Go home, John. I'll stay a little longer. I am conducting an experiment-"  
It was not necessary to continue. Without a word of greeting, John walked out of the morgue with the gait of a sleepwalker, as if he had witnessed something disconcerting, who had upset.  
Molly felt a sudden motion of regret. She turned to Sherlock with hands on her hips. "You're a terrible friend."  
"The cup you gave me last Christmas says otherwise."  
"Oh, you!" Molly snapped.  
"Molly." Sherlock leaned over, arms crossed behind his back. He had the look charming when he wanted to dazzle her, a boyish smile. "Don't try to tell me that you didn't enjoy it too." He didn't say: _I know. I've seen it._ His eyes did it for him.  
"All right" Molly sighed in exasperation. "But it was not nice what you - _we_ did, agree. John seemed - uh, seemed upset."  
"John will be fine" Sherlock decreed, pursing his lips in a suspicious way. "And no, it was not nice. It was hilarious. "  
Molly couldn't help herself over. She met the eyes of Sherlock - of a electric blue that sparkled of hilarity. She burst out laughing. "God, did you see how he looked at us?" She asked between a laugh and another. "He seemed preoccupied, as if... as if afraid that you wanted to drug me or something!"  
Surprisingly Sherlock didn't laugh.  
Molly frowned. "What?" It took a moment to put together the new perspective. "You drugged me? No, not me" she corrected herself immediately. "I recognized the taste or smell. It would also be counterproductive. There is very little of what you could ask me that I would not do. So who? Mrs. Hudson? John?" She tried again.  
Sherlock clucked his tongue. He paused, rigid, thereby stretching her face searching for some kind of sign. When he not seem to find what was looking for, whatever it was, the tension faded away and looked relaxed, open to confidences. "John, during the Baskerville case. You must have read his blog."  
Molly did local mind. "Yes, I remember now. The hallucinogenic gas, right?"  
Sherlock nodded. "If you care to know I drugged also my parents, Mycroft and Mary this Christmas, but it was a powerful narcotic and was Wiggins to prepare and administer it."  
"Because you told him to do it."  
Sherlock had a brief motion of boredom.  
Silence fell, not awkward and prickly, quite a nice break. Molly used the opportunity to record the information of John Doe, now recognized Will Minchin. For the family the discovery would have mitigated the tragedy.  
"You said that John seemed upset."  
Molly didn't look up, continuing to copy her notes. "Yes, I said it."  
"I do not understand why."  
"You don't understand why John seemed confused?" Molly almost didn't believe the words she had just uttered. It was not the effect that Sherlock wanted to get from the theater that had set up? She looked at him and in the plot of thoughts that had shadowed his face she saw the first signs of disappointment.  
There was annoyance in his voice, discontent. "Don't you think he overreacted?"  
"No?" Molly hazarded.  
Sherlock breathed noisily. "Molly Hooper, what we said about answering a question with another?"  
_So here._ When Sherlock used that tone, Molly would have wanted to slap him. Or to kiss him, as an alternative. She lowered her head quickly, tormented by the idea that after all this time still was lost in reveries of this kind. "Sherlock Holmes, I haven't here your damn manual to check" she said sarcastically, "but I'm sure it was something highly enlightening."  
Maybe she had gone too far. She didn't care. The same risked a glance to ascertain the extent to which her reply had annoyed him. What he saw took her breath away.  
There was an intensity in his face, something very different from the euphoria that animated him during the resolution of a mystery or the complacency that appeared at the end of an experiment that showed the results projected. A look that he had seen only turn to John, in a particular circumstance. "Sherlock? What is it? I said - did something that ... "  
"Molly." Sherlock took a step forward, the distance between them was reduced to a whole execrable amount of air. "I thought we had long passed the stage of stammering."  
Molly was proud to still not be flushed.  
"The same" Sherlock continued, serious and pensively, extending a hand to his face and touching her cheek - Molly shivered at the touch of his skin with her and not from the cold, her eyes widened - "I cannot say that I didn't miss this part of you. "  
"Sherlock" she said, meaning much more. "What the hell are you doing? If is one of your tests I want you to know that I have a scalpel and a hand able to use it and –"  
Sherlock filled the space that separated them with his cumbersome presence and kissed her. And Molly didn't stop to think. She didn't hear the fireworks or other pleasant romantic trinkets. She was fully aware of Sherlock's mouth moving over hers, his hands through her hair. He had pulled the rubber band and now they fell to her shoulders. At the end she would find herself a swallow's nest instead of a head, all right. Not that she was complaining.  
"Molly. Stop thinking. Although relevant, I find that your thoughts affect the proper atmosphere."  
Molly smiled at him and he gave her one so bright - neat from any external reflection or second purpose – that she wondered if it was all a dream. Maybe he really drugged her.  
"Far-fetched hypothesis" was the comment of Sherlock.  
"Sherlock." Molly took a deep breath. "You've just kissed me and I can assure you that this is the most amazing and strange thing that ever happened to me."  
"Need I remind you of the time you were going to dissect that corpse and it was sat up or that-"  
"For heaven's sake, just shut up!" Her last wish was that he disturbed the harmony of the moment. A moment that earned her a wait of six years.  
Sherlock had a positive misunderstand that 'silent' with a 'kiss' because it was precisely what he did. Again and again.

* * *

**AN:**

There is little to say. In fact, nothing. Only the hope, as usual, to have written something at least decent, and after all a pleasant reading.  
A hug and good Easter Monday everyone :)


End file.
